


Some Future Book

by Britpacker



Series: Future Books [1]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:09:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: Salvaging some of the organic circuitry from the 31st century ship, Trip inadvertently activates a stream of historical data.  Whatever he expected of a future book, it didn’t include this…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Only the errors are mine, as ever. Another case of a throwaway line mid-episode setting off ideas that just run away with themselves!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trip's doing some work inside the future ship when he finds something he really, really didn't need to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Author's notes: Spoiler alerts: 2.16 "Future Tense" of course, and in a later part, 2.17 "Canamar" about covers it (so far!). And there's always the possibility that as I progress, the rating may rise.  
> 
> 
> * * *

"Sonofabitch!"

His cry overlaid by the hiss and sizzle of a dozen angry cobras erupting from the damaged circuits around his hand, Commander Charles Tucker III jerked back so far he almost tumbled back out the cockpit's hatch . "Fuckin' time travellers. Can't even design a decent fuckin' workspace," he growled, giving his tingling fingers an experimental shake.

The wounded circuits, determined to prove there was life left in them despite their rough journey back 900 years, pulsed fluorescent green, casting ghoulish patterns through the compact vessel. Cautiously probing into their depths with a pair of micro-tweezers Tucker gave himself a mental pat on the back. If nothing else he'd just proved the damn things could be useful: always assuming he could ever figure a way of detaching them from the mother ship.

Malcolm Reed's wry words came back to him, so real he thought they were echoing around his confined workspace. "Maybe we should get Phlox to come down and take a look."

In spite of the frustration bubbling through his chest, Trip Tucker had to stifle a snort. The doctor had almost fainted with excitement when "organic circuitry" had been mentioned in his presence. If they weren't careful he'd be adding another cage to the Sickbay Zoo: whatever these things were, he'd be sure to find some kind of medicinal reason to keep them.

"C'mon, little guy. Just be nice to me now an' we'll getcha home safe to the thirty-first fuckin' century."

_Dammit!_

Now he was hearing his English colleague's mocking laughter at his well-meaning attempt to sweet-talk the uncomprehending vessel. It had worked on the broken-down old scooter Grandpa Johnson had given him at fourteen: and pretty much every engine-powered device he'd encountered since. 

_Maybe by the thirty-first century they've lost the knack of making nice with these babies._

Gingerly prodding the loosened circuitry again he allowed himself a mental harrumph. One more reason not to be curious about the future. He'd have to remember it next time Malcolm talked about building himself a time machine. _Goddamn future. Daniels can keep it. He never brings us nothing but trouble, either._

Preoccupied by his internal grumbling he snagged a nail against the underside of one spongy greenish strand. 

An eerie hissing sound echoed through the cabin. Bright light flashed across Tucker's field of vision, disorientating him as he staggered backward from a crystal-clear holographic screen that solidified, hanging right over the pilot's seat.

"Aw shit, _now_ what've you done?"

The screen shimmered impertinently back at him, and to Trip Tucker it felt as if a few phrases from the tightly-packed block of data were crawling out of the flat image. "So Johnny made it to admiral," he breathed, momentarily stunned beyond the enormity of what he was doing. "Sonofabitch, he's got planets named after him, too! Boy, he's gonna love that when I..."

His voice struck the hologram and dissolved. What had he said to Malcolm about checking out the last page of the book before reading it? "Now how does a guy turn this thing off?" he growled, twisting awkwardly in his limited space to glare into the guilty muddle of pulsing filaments. 

He was trying not to see. Really, Tucker assured himself, it wasn't his fault that a few words halfway down the text suddenly decided to just jump right out and smack him upside the head. _Admiral Charles Tucker III._

It wasn't right. He wasn't supposed to know any of this. He had to find the deactivation sequence.

As he ducked to pull the malleable threads again something else sprang out which, having hit him smack between the eyes then whipped around to whack him from behind with the force of a Klingon right hook. _Married: Malcolm Reed._

"Oh, no." Business forgotten Tucker backed out of the vessel, still staring at the offending words so hard it seemed everything else was blotted out, leaving them blood-red and defiant. "No way. I'm straight."

He uncurled from the hatch into the challenging brightness of the quiet launch bay, one hand clutched at his rolling stomach while the room swam from focus around him. "So help me," he grated. "I'm straight!"


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's seen the future. Whether he likes it or not.

"Any luck?"

The casual query elicited a reaction Malcolm Reed barely expected of his laid-back immediate superior. The Chief Engineer rocketed away from his workstation as if he had been struck in the chest with a disruptor. "Uh, yeah, no, not really," Tucker stuttered, blushing to the roots of his fair hair.

The Armoury Officer cocked his sable head; shifted his weight onto his right side; folded his arms. The classic _enquiring_ stance, Tucker took time to notice, clutching at something - anything - to occupy his mind until total humiliation faded away. "Goddamn future historians," he growled, thrusting a hand through his hair and leaving a thread of greenish goo unnoticed behind. "They should stay in their own damn century and stop fuckin' around with the rest of us."

"If you ever get that thing working, maybe you can leave a suggestion." People passed by, giving the two officers a glance or a quick nod of acknowledgement but, Tucker congratulated himself, nobody seemed aware of him shrivelling into a little ball, every muscle clenched so tight he could hear the squeaks of protest running up all the way from his toes. 

"Yeah," he said lamely. "Maybe I'll do that."

"You got a couple of them out?"

Damn. Malcolm wasn't usually oblivious: in fact if he had to back anyone in an observation contest, even against their communications expert, Trip would put all his chips, without hesitation, on the Englishman. _Maybe he's tormenting me?_

"They're no use; soon as they're disconnected from the mother ship, they must be programmed to delete themselves." That sounded confident; professional. The lieutenant grunted and bent from the waist, peering into the workings of the dismantled device they had speculated was a futuristic flight recorder. "At least if the Suliban catch up, we know they'll get nothin' out of it either."

"If we get caught between them and these Tholians for too long there mightn't be much left for them to pick out among the wreckage." Reed was staring at the disassembled pieces of future technology with - by his standards - conspicuous fascination. "D' you want a hand?"

"Nah, I'll manage." Oh God, hunching over the damn device together, their shoulders brushing... it wouldn't have bothered him two hours ago, but now Tucker knew he couldn't stand it. "Cap'n needs you on the bridge, with two hostile species chasin' us down," he added, sufficiently pleased with the embellishment to grin. The Englishman grimaced.

"No doubt he'll expect me to take out both lots with the same bloody shot," he groused, evidently amused by the image. "See you later."

"Yeah." He kept his head down and his eyes on the random components until he heard the outer door clang shut.

Only then did he allow himself to breathe, feeling the fine hairs prickle the length of his arms. This was insane. He preferred women. Always had.

Except...

_No. Don't go there. Not on duty. Johnny's depending on you. You're not going to think of Josh._

The squeak that escaped his pursed lips was turned hastily into a familiar obscenity. For the benefit of Crewman Rostov, staring with undisguised curiosity across the workbench, Tucker gave the nearest artefact an irritable poke. He'd thought it. And now he wasn't going to think of anything else for the rest of the day.

"Thanks, future!"

*

He hoped that surviving the first encounter would make the one after easier to handle. He found out soon enough, he'd been wrong.

The burst of manic activity was over: the future ship had dematerialised back to the 31st century; Tholians and Suliban had slaughtered each other on numbers he didn't even want to think about; and the Vulcans had been as soullessly patronising as only Vulcans could be in accepting Johnny's stumbling apologies for the inconvenience humanity had (again) put the High Command through. Even his engines were purring like well-fed kittens again.

Exhausted, Tucker stumbled along to the observation lounge in search of a soothing glass of milk before bedtime. By the time he realised somebody else was there before him, he'd taken two strides across the half-lit room and couldn't turn around without looking like he was running away.

Which was, he admitted as he returned Malcolm Reed's quiet greeting, exactly what he would be doing.

"Bugger of a day, that," the armoury officer commented amiably. "I'll tell you one thing for nothing, though: it's the first time I've ever been glad to see the Suliban."

"Don't go makin' a habit of it, Lieutenant,"

The instant the title touched his lips, Tucker regretted it. A dark eyebrow arched. "On duty, Commander?" Reed teased, mischief making his light grey eyes sparkle. Trip shrugged.

"Feels like we're never off it," he parried, letting himself flop into the seat opposite his friend. "You tellin' me you're drinkin' hot chocolate at midnight because you're not too hyped-up to sleep?"

"Touché. Sir."

For several minutes they sipped their drinks in silence. It wasn't the first time they'd wound up this way after an emergency, Tucker acknowledged. In the past he'd enjoyed their quiet times; taken solace from the Englishman's tranquil companionship. Now...

_Dammit!_

His heart fluttered. He could feel himself slowing his breaths to match the other man's. Now, he was wondering why he'd never noticed how glossy and kissable Reed's thin, well-cut lips looked when he pupped them around the rim of his cup. Or how starlight streaming through the viewport softened the sharp angles of the Brit's face and turned his pale skin to perfect alabaster.

He took a defiant slug from his glass. And choked.

"Careful!" Nobody reacted quicker than Malcolm Reed. Before the cry was finished he was around the table, helpfully pounding the teary-eyed Southerner on the back while Tucker tried to cough out apologies and thanks in the same gulped breath. 

"You're knackered, Trip." The kindness was pragmatic, but emphasised by a friendly shoulder-clout Tucker knew would be offered to no one else on board: Lieutenant Reed didn't _do_ physical contact, unless it happened to be in a combat situation. "I'll get rid of your glass. Get to bed."

"Aye, sir." _You're straight, remember. You prefer girls._

Even with the mantra running through his head, getting all tangled up with the engines' thrum, Tucker could still see the accusing words float before him all the way down the corridor. _Married: Malcolm Reed._

"No," he told his blurred reflection in the turbolift wall. "You made that decision. You're gonna marry a woman someday."

So why was his reflection laughing at him?

*

He turned the shower up to maximum temperature and stood beneath its scalding spray as long as he dared, using the sting to focus his wayward mind. He was going insane, had to be to be thinking about Malcolm's lips, calculating their likely softness... he'd never dreamed of kissing a man before. Not even with Josh.

"Fuck off!"

Everybody on board talked to themselves sometimes; he'd heard enough of them to know it. Swearing at themselves, though... that was probably a Tucker thing. "I'm not talkin' to you."

His voice echoed flatly around the empty room but the taunting phantom in his mind refused to hear it. White teeth gleamed brilliantly between full lips; smooth, dark skin rippled over muscles that, even at eighteen, could have matched Travis Mayweather's impressive current physique. The first time he'd met the boomer Trip had been struck by the resemblance in the warm, laughing eyes; the generous smile; the powerful set of the shoulders. For the first time since their mutual agreement, he'd remembered just how good it had been to have another man's hand on his dick.

Without bothering to towel off he flung himself full-length onto his bunk, barely aware of the pleasant ache starting up in his balls as the memories consumed him. One hand tucked behind his head while the other meandered freely the length of his torso, each finger-fall trickling sensation into his core. Josh had favoured the tactical stream: their paths barely crossed during classes. But somehow, wherever he went on campus, Cadet Tucker had come across him.

And every time he'd felt the same little stutter in his heart rate. When that hand had brushed his thigh for the first time - an accident, he'd said - in an overcrowded corridor, Trip had felt his knees give way. 

And Josh had known. The next time he hadn't even pretended it wasn't deliberate. Late at night, stumbling out of the 602 into a deserted street, Tucker hadn't wanted him to.

They were, they had agreed from the get-go, straight guys. They chased girls; had their share of success as a tag-team, too. But sometimes, when they weren't so lucky...

Tucker sighed, letting his fingertips ghost across his sensitive tip. Those strong dark fingers enveloping his cock had given him feelings like he'd never known with anyone else, and sure as hell never been able to replicate since with his own. It didn't matter they'd never kissed. Kissing would have changed everything; made a relationship of the experiment. They'd been having fun. Nothing more.

But oh God, it had made him feel good!

Gently he grasped himself and began to pump, his cabin dissolving into the lush green surroundings of the Academy gardens; the faint light overhead became the warm summer sun on his face, the hand that caressed him another man's, strong, competent, assured. When he came, it was with a half-forgotten name slipping over his lips.

"Josh!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's still in denial. It's not going well, but it's better than the alternative - isn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Canamar” is not an episode I’ve watched for a while; I think the gist’s right, but please – don’t look too closely!

"Captain, at least take a security detail!"

"Relax, Lieutenant," Jonathan Archer grinned amiably at his bristling Armoury Office, standing slightly apart from the rest of the senior staff clustered around the situation room console. "The Enolians are friendly. We'll be fine on our own -“ we're all grown-up, aren't we, Trip?"

"Yessir." The Brit was on the point of objecting; Tucker could see the words building up behind those tightly thinned lips. T'Pol forestalled him.

"It would be prudent to heed Lieutenant Reed's advice, Captain," she said, just a hint of condescension in her flat words. Instantly, Trip knew with certainty that he and his friend were going alone.

*

"Cap'n?"

Without turning his head Jonathan Archer responded under his breath. "Yeah?"

"We shoulda listened to Malcolm."

The older man's shoulders heaved. "You're a little late coming around to that, buddy."

Tucker snorted softly. "Like you got there before we were boarded. Sir."

From his other side an all-too-familiar voice piped up in a stage whisper. "If Malcolm's a friend of yours, you should listen to him more often. Nobody ever got old trusting the Enolians. I knew a man...

"Quiet!"

Air whistled between Tucker's clenched teeth, his neighbour's whine extended while their captor zapped him, smirking as the punishment device did its worst. An instant later it struck his shoulder and he howled out loud.

"Hey!" Archer tried to lurch up in his defence: dumb to the last, Trip noticed blearily. "He didn't do anything!"

"'salright." The pain subsided to a dull throb and Tucker righted himself to glare sullenly at his assailant. The guard shrugged. 

" _He_ wouldn't talk if _you_ didn't listen," he said, applying a toecap to the shin on his way past. Archer surged off his bench again.

"Leave it, Cap'n." Like anyone in their right mind would encourage Zoumas! The guy was plain unstoppable, all mouth and no ears.

Malcolm never talked too much. And when somebody talked to him, he actually listened. Trip felt his innards lurch as if the filthy convict ship had got caught in an interstellar storm. God, he was going to miss Malcolm!

_No_ , he told himself fiercely. _You're not giving up. He'll come after you._

Not Enterprise, he discovered. Not Sub-Commander T'Pol on behalf of the planet Earth and the Vulcan High Command. No, he was counting on Malcolm Reed. _Since when did he become my fuckin' hero?_

Maybe, he conceded, since being the only one with a lick of sense over _Johnny and Trip's alien vacation._

*

And maybe, he decided later when he'd been finally abandoned to Zoumas's incessant burbling, because Malcolm would've been some use when Johnny decided to make nice with a nasty-looking mutineer. Not that he felt sorry for their guards, but... while Zoumas made plans for his freedom, Tucker focussed on the cold water lapping inside his belly. It didn't add up. _Johnny Archer, I hope you know what you're doing here!_

Evidently Kuroda trusted him - and by extension the Captain - about as much as Tucker did them, keeping him shackled to the most aggravating damn creation in the universe with nothing but his memories of Enterprise to blot out the potent mix of fear and fury that grew like mould around his organs.

His neighbour's voice threaded its way into the drone of the engines, his mind light years away, wherever Enterprise might be. Mal would know what to do in a mess like this. And even if he didn't, he'd still be cool. That calm could be as contagious as the anxiety he felt rippling around the crowded cabin. 

Lonely, Tucker decided. Among all these frightened strangers, and even with his good friend Jon nearby, he was completely alone. Otherwise, he wouldn't be thinking with this passionate, lover-like longing about a buddy. _Does he know? Will he miss me like I miss him?_

Zoumas's voice sliced through his melancholic thoughts. "Of course there's always Tamalis - I hear they don't ask questions when _new citizens_ arrive. You wouldn't attract too much attention there."

"You really think they're gonna let us go?" The words were out before Tucker could stop them, wrenched from a throat thickened with tears and rage. Zoumas rocked back, his shackles clanking as he tried to clasp his thin hands. 

"What else can they do?" he whined. Tucker's shoulders slumped. 

"I guess," he muttered. The jerk was scared. So was he. And if he ever made it back to Enterprise, he was going to give that snitty sarcastic damn Limey all the _I told you so_ 's he wanted. 

He'd even thank him.

*

His head was still spinning from the blast Zoumas had got him. His whole body twanged with all-over cramps. The ignorant goddamn alien thought he deserved thanking. Maybe, Tucker decided grimly, he'd do it right before Kuroda's approaching friends pulled the trigger for the last time.

"They're coming!" Thanks to the jangling shackles, every time his neighbour moved Tucker moved too. The pneumatic sound of a docking hatch pressurising filled the cabin. Though he warned himself _no_ , he couldn't resist turning to stare.

His face a frozen mask of concentration Malcolm Reed burst through before the hatch was fully opened, a rifle jutting from the hip and a whole phalanx of gigantic security types at his back. "Get down!" the Englishman snarled, almost stumbling in his rush to board. A figure loomed up to his right. With a sharp jerk of the hand, Reed brought him down. 

Tucker's mouth hung open, awe making his chest hurt. Controlled fury. Malcolm would've made the perfect entry for a kids' pictorial dictionary. Kuroda's crew didn't stand a chance.

"I see my message got through." Archer scrambled from the cockpit, grimy, panting, but with the shit-eating smug grin on his face that always made Trip veer between laughing and decking him. 

"Loud and clear, Sir." Reed surveyed the chained rabble on the benches, the grim set of his features lightening at the sight of another human. Trip cleared his throat.

"Um, Cap'n?" he suggested, vainly trying to wave. Archer grinned. 

The next minutes were a blur; the noise and confusion merged with the giddy realisation it was over making Trip's head spin and his senses blur until he staggered. "Easy, Commander. I've got you," a soft voice almost sang. Hands with the strength of steel clamps, swathed now in cotton wool, cupped beneath his armpits, manipulating him off the stinking transport. "Travis! Get those people back from the controls! You alright, Trip?"

"Yeah." Maybe. He tilted, sagging into a bucket seat with the grace of an abandoned vegetable sack. "Thirsty."

When the gentle hands disappeared, he was sorry he'd mentioned it. A second later, with fingers lifting his chin and cool, clear liquid dribbling over his cracked lips, he was glad he had.

"Better?" Something cool brushed his forehead, a contrast with the heat the stung his gritty eyeballs. He tried to focus on the crisp British voice snapping out orders, cold chills prickling him at the anxiety behind each new call to the captain with time running out. 

The hand on his brow didn't move. 

It felt nice. Protective.

Intimate.

Archer barrelled aboard and launched into the seat at his side. Reed retracted the offending limb with stinging sharpness. "Travis, get us out of here!" he bawled, thrown sideways against the Southerner's shoulder by the alacrity with which the boomer responded. "Sorry, Commander."

"'s okay." _Trip. You called me Trip before._

"Thanks." Gracelessly Reed slumped down behind him, gripping the seat until his knuckles went white. Tucker was dimly aware the smaller man was trembling.

He fumbled to find the lieutenant's hand and squeezed. "'salright," he muttered. "We're goin' home now, yeah?"

"I know." He expected the businesslike brush-off. To get an acknowledgement with a cracking voice damn near broke his heart. "Adrenaline, that's all. We didn't quite know what to expect."

"Me an' the Cap'n dropped in the shit again, Lieutenant. Same as usual."

The younger officer's soft snort flowed with the comforting warmth of a woollen scarf down the side of his neck. "Any more of this and I'll be sabotaging the shuttlepods, Commander. Meet up for dinner later - once you've been given the all-clear by Phlox, of course?"

"Figure I'll be in decon 'til Thanksgiving, but that sounds good, Mal."

Mal. Tucker hadn't realised how often he called the guy that; never even noticed that Reed accepted it without comment, a breach of _proper form_ that surely should be scandalous between the ranks. He liked it.

In future, he told himself, his eyelids drooping as sleep closed in, he'd use it all the time when they were alone.

The last thing he knew was the pressure of a hand on his shoulder; the thread of a gravelly voice close to his ear. "It's all right, I've got you, you're safe now. I've got you, Trip."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insanity. Repeating something and expecting a different result. Trip's not quite as crazy as he thought...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick clarification for non-British readers: Heston Blumenthal is a famously "experimental" British chef!

Damn those words! Every time he closed his eyes for the next week Tucker could swear he heard them again.

What was worse: each time he jerked awake he saw the handsome face of his colleague, the sharp angles all softened with the gentle version of his accustomed half-smile - so rarely seen, so enticing - right in front of him, so real he thought he could reach out and touch the velvet smoothness of newly-shaven male skin. 

Nor did it help that everywhere he went the armoury officer seemed to be ahead of him. The mess hall. The observation lounge late at night. And did he usually spend this much time in engineering when there wasn't an argument over power outputs to be had?

Not that Trip was really complaining. Nothing livened up a dull shift more than a sardonic Englishman with time to kill leaned against his workbench to debate the relative merits of a classic meat and two veg versus Chef's idiosyncratic take on monkfish wrapped in smoked Kontari ham and served on a bed of acidic Tarkelian Ricewart Beans. "And don't you know we're bored," the armoury office had concluded wearily, "when the reincarnation of Heston flippin' Blumenthal in a Starfleet apron is the biggest talking-point of the day!"

Trip had no idea who Heston Blumenthal might have been, but he laughed anyway. Then he scooted into his office and locked the door while he checked the _Culinary Historical Database_ for something to fill the emptiness when the other man wandered away.

That was the point he snapped. "Man," he moaned, dropping his head into his hands, "you've gotta do somethin' about this! Get laid. Watch some porn. Just get Malcolm Reed out of your fuckin' head before it explodes!"

*

His chance came two days later: the god of chief engineers smiling on one of his own and bringing Enterprise into orbit above the pastoral planet Amori, whose lissom, beautiful people were only too eager to offer hospitality to passing strangers. Seated on plump cushions in a vast marquee made from the same translucent, silky fabric as the natives' flowing robes Tucker found himself being monopolised by the First Minister's raven-haired sister, offered the choicest chunks of succulent fruit while musicians tinkled on instruments that were shaped like harps and made a sound like rushing water. "Are your people always this welcomin' to strangers, Madame Aquarel?" he enquired, fumbling for the napkin in his lap.

His hostess wafted it gently against his lips, mopping the lush crimson juice that trickled from the corner of his lazy smile. "When the strangers in question are as intriguing as you, Commander, hospitality is a pleasure," she replied before bringing the cloth to her own generous mouth. "The Listaris fruit is pleasing to you?"

"It's delicious." _Just like you_ played through his mind, the corniest of sentiments as she raised another dribbling segment from their shared platter. When he caught it between his teeth Tucker let his tongue linger, drawing in the sharp salt sting of her skin. " _Really_ delicious," he added, giving a waggle of the eyebrows to the double-entendre. 

Aquarel dipped her lashes at him, tilting her head so the cooling breeze through the tent's open flaps could waft her hair until its wispy tendrils brushed his arm. "Perhaps you would care to see it in its natural habitat, Trip - may I call you Trip? Such an unusual name..."

"It's kind of a nickname - not my real name, but I prefer it; and yes, if you'll be the one to show me."

When she stood the slit up the side of her robe parted, revealing a long sliver of invitingly milky thigh. "If you will confess the true name you find so unpleasing..." Aquarel purred, raking her violet eyes up and down him until they came back to meet his on the level. His chortle turned heads the length of the tent.

"Charles Tucker the Third at your service, Ma'am," he drawled, making an exaggerated bow before dropping into her scented wake where he could admire the smooth curve of buttocks flowing up to a straight, slender back almost completely curtained by that magnificent ebony mane. "Cap'n, Aquarel's just takin' me..."

"Permission granted, Commander." Archer's craggy face split into a knowing grin. At his shoulder, shadowing his captain as always, Lieutenant Reed frowned.

Tucker felt his mouth go dry, irrational anger forming into a solid block across the base of his throat at the mute censure. _Damn superior Limey bastard. Probably thinks I need an armed escort. Like we wouldn't have seen it if she had a disrupter under that skirt!_

Beyond the tented village established for their visit lush gardens stretched, dissolving on the distant horizon into wildflower meadows crisscrossed by snaking chalk tracks. "The Listaris grows best on the riverbank, Charles Tucker the Third," his hostess explained, offering her hands. "But the ground is damp - treacherous to strangers. Will you allow me to guide you?"

"Glad to." Warmth was building in his chest. The blood began to surge in his veins. 

Anticipation, liquid and heady, puddled pleasurably in his loins. This was right. Natural.

Skin dry as cracking parchment scraped his palms, the sensation stabbing through his erotic haze. Okay, so maybe she had the texture of a desiccated corpse. Aquarel was still beautiful, and still making all the intergalactic signals for _interested and available_ with every coy glance she gave. Trip wet his lips. Swallowed hard. "You're sure it's safe?"

"As long as you have a trusted guide. You trust me, Trip; don't you?"

"My Daddy taught me always t' take the word of a lady, Ma'am." Allowing his drawl to thicken, Tucker leaned into her personal space, letting his breath fan the teardrop shell of her ear. When she shivered, he smiled. When her hands tightened around his, defiant triumph swelled his heart.

And as she guided him down a steep slope, out of sight of the tented village, he discovered another part of his anatomy was enthusiastically following its lead. 

"Would a lady on your world do this?" Using their linked hands as a lever Aquarel pulled him closer, covering his mouth with her own.

Cold. Hard. Rubbery. It was all he could do not to recoil while the plumped-up lips he'd been admiring all day finally rubbed over his. Tucker grunted.

The minimal opening created was enough for her narrow tongue to slide into, coating the interior of his bottom lip with slime. His grip on her hands tightened while he fought the urge to gag, his eyes squeezed tight until the limited Amori lung capacity gave out and she was forced to break the kiss.

His whole face felt pummelled: which if he was lucky she'd take as the reason he knew he must have gone a weird colour. "Uh, maybe not," he stammered, his calves and thighs cramped against the instinctive desire for flight. His hands lay slack in her determined grasp, the wide-open pastoral scene he had admired since landing suddenly terrifying, a barren expanse where a man could be hunted without hope of escape. _Malcolm, if you're planning one of those heroic rescues of yours, now would be a very good time._

As if she read his panicked thoughts Aquarel stepped abruptly back, letting his hands fall. "The Listaris grows at the water's edge, Commander," she said, pleasantly but without a trace of the intimacy that had coloured her most innocent words before. "You see the white buds hanging from gold stems? They will ripen and swell into fruits within the week. My brother, I am sure, will gladly send a cargo to Enterprise with our good wishes should your captain desire."

"Cap'n Archer'll be touched, Ma'am." The flood of relief washing over him made him giddy with a rush more potent than the sexual thrill he'd left the tent anticipating. "You mind if I go take a closer look at those plants? You have some beautiful flowers down there..."

Aquarel, it transpired, was either an enthusiastic botanist or determined to let folks believe she'd seduced her alien admirer. When they returned to the marquee two hours later, windblown and flushed from their long walk, he got a purse-lipped glare from Reed and a smirk from Johnny that suggested she'd achieved complete success. 

Raw rage engulfed him. How dare that iron-assed bastard disapprove of him doing whatever the hell he wanted? Deliberately he exaggerated the wink he threw Archer's way, exulting in the Englishman's convulsive flinch. _Think you can smell her on me, Malcolm?_

"Thanks for the tour, Aquarel," he said loudly, using the name in public he'd avoided when they were alone. "Cap'n, this place is incredible, you know that?"

"I'm glad you're enjoying it, Commander." Only he would detect the trace of envy in his best friend's tone and for a nanosecond regret ripped the cloak of self-satisfaction that enveloped him. Celibacy and Johnny Archer weren't natural bedfellows, and now... pissing off the snitty, sexless Brit was one thing. Reminding Johnny what he was missing - that was just plain wrong.

Escorting Aquarel back to her brother's dais he felt familiar stormy eyes burn through him and he stumbled, guilty humiliation scouring his guts. Why blame Malcolm? The guy hadn't done anything.

Except, Tucker conceded, being named as his husband on a damned unverified database from the 31st century. And even that wouldn't have gotten into his bloodstream if Mal wasn't handsome, smart, and more fun to be around than any fancy alien babe he'd seen over a hundred light years.

"Trip, my friend," he told himself when they were back aboard with a dozen crates of Listaris uselessly stowed in the hold, "You. Are. Screwed."


End file.
